


The Establishment Blues

by standbygo



Series: November 2014 Song Challenge [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary gets bored, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Establishment Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> This is the third in a series of pieces, built out of a challenge/cooperation between ResidentBunburyist and myself. Each piece begins with a piece of music, then I write a piece and RB draws a picture for it, or RB draws a picture and I write a piece for it. 
> 
> This one is from "This Is Not A Song, Its An Outburst: Or, The Establishment Blues" by Rodriguez, suggested by my friend Kris.
> 
> You can follow us on Tumblr:  
> ResidentBunburyist: http://residentbunburyist.tumblr.com/  
> Standbygo: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blogstandbygo

_Gun sales are soaring_

_Housewives find life boring Divorce the only answer_

_Smoking causes cancer This system's gonna fall soon_

_To an angry young tune And that's a concrete cold fact._

  * _Rodriguez, This Is Not A Song, Its An Outburst: Or, The Establishment Blues_




John whirls around the lounge, grabbing coat, wallet, keys, gun.

Gun. Mary’s fingers twitch.

“What’s this one then?” Mary says.

“Serial killer,” Sherlock says from the doorway. “Come on, John, the cab’s waiting.”

“Keep your shirt on,” John says. He checks the gun for ammo, then tucks it into his waistband, covering it with his coat. Mary spends a moment remembering her holster that she could wear against her thigh, the one that allowed her to wear a skin tight miniskirt and no one could see the gun, cool against the inside of her thigh.

“You’ll be all right, then?” John says, looking up at Mary. She notes that it’s the first time he’s looked at her directly since Sherlock arrived at the door, and files this away for future reference.

“Of course, John. Grace is already asleep. I might watch a movie that doesn’t involve puppets.”

“Good idea,” John says. He pats over his pockets again, then nods to himself. “Okay, let’s go,” he says, striding towards the door. He hesitates, then turns back and kisses Mary on the cheek. “Have a good night. Don’t wait up.”

Mary listens as Sherlock begins to detail the case to John as the door slams shut. Mary exhales deeply as silence sinks into the house.

She shifts the telly six inches to the right, pulls up the loose floorboard and wraps her fingers around the gun hidden within the niche there. John doesn’t know about this gun. It was one of his conditions after Grace was born, that she dispose of all her gear. She argued that he should also dispense with his as well, to be fair and even, but he said he needed it for cases. _He_ wasn’t retired, after all.

John doesn’t need to know about this gun. It’s only a Ruger 9mm anyway.

She feels herself calm as the cool metal warms against her skin. She walks to the window and edges the curtain apart slightly with her left hand. Sherlock had kept a cab waiting, but apparently the cabbie doesn’t want to take them to where they need to go. She can see Sherlock arguing with the driver through two windows - the lounge window, and the cab’s window. She lifts the gun and aims.

“Pow,” she whispers.

The bullets are in the flour tin. Dry firing the gun isn’t good for it, but she can’t resist. It’s been too long. God damn the UK gun laws. She can’t even go to a firing range.

The cab pulls away, and Mary lets the curtain fall.

A thin and querulous wail winds down the stairs.

Mary sighs, replaces the gun in its hole, moves the telly back over the loose floorboard. She takes a moment to settle herself, to recast her mind into the appropriate mold.

She plasters a smile on her face, the smile she calls her ‘Mrs. Darling’ look.

“Coming, sweetie,” she calls, and mounts the stairs to the nursery.

 

_End_

 


End file.
